


Twelve Days of Murder

by Lunar_June



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 12 Days of Christmas, But if you are very affected by that kind of thing please consider your own health before reading, But it won't be graphic, Canon Divergence, Case Fic, Christmas, Dark, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Eventual Happy Ending, Honestly just the prospect of sorting everything out gives me hives, M/M, Past Mary Morstan/John Watson, Pre-Reichenbach, Slow Burn, Takes place when Watson has moved out, There is some child death, canon timeline not applicable, i think
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:35:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28126974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunar_June/pseuds/Lunar_June
Summary: There is a new murderer prowling the snowy streets of London, and for the sake of his irregulars, Holmes must track him down, and decipher his code, before the twelve days of Christmas have come to an end, and he has lost his chance forever.Cruel winds whipped in the bitter cold, snowfall scratching at the cheeks of a singular small figure, standing isolated in the dark. He clutched desperately at his torso, stumbling in ankle deep snow, red droplets leaking from between his fingers and burning red holes into the endless white of the ground.Finally, as exhaustion was just about to take it's toll, the light of a streetlamp pools and illuminates a great, oak door labelled '221b'. Slumping heavily against it's frame, the poor soul knocked with the remainder of his strength.To his amazement, warm light flooded the windows of the flat, spilling out as the door opened with a tentative creek.Upon seeing the towering figure, the boy collapsed forwards in relief, feeling only the support of strong arms around him before being swallowed wholly by the dark."Wiggins?"
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	Twelve Days of Murder

_**December 25th, Christmas Day** _

Cruel winds whipped in the bitter cold, snowfall scratching at the cheeks of a singular small figure, standing isolated in the dark. He clutched desperately at his torso, stumbling in ankle deep snow, red droplets leaking from between his fingers and burning red holes into the endless white of the ground.

Finally, as exhaustion was just about to take it's toll, the light of a streetlamp pools and illuminates a great, oak door labelled '221b'. Slumping heavily against it's frame, the poor soul knocked with the remainder of his strength. To his amazement, warm light flooded the windows of the flat, spilling out as the door opened with a tentative creek. Upon seeing the towering figure, the boy collapsed forwards in relief, feeling only the support of strong arms around him before being swallowed wholly by the dark.

"Wiggins?"

* * *

_**December 24th, Christmas Eve** _

A newspaper slapped against the breakfast table, sending egg spoons and tea cups clattering. Holmes, mid-bite of his toast, looked up to find a seemingly very incensed Lestrade. Dropping his toast, he raised an eyebrow at the Inspector, "I suppose it was Mrs. Hudson who let you in, then."  
Lestrade's normally beady eyes bulged, his face a shade too red against his normal pallor. "I beg you to help me understand what in God's name has gotten into you these past few months."

Holmes casually picked at the shell of a soft-boiled egg, "I'm afraid I don't quite get your meaning."

"My men have been trying to get a hold of you for weeks. We require your assistance on a most urgent--"

Holmes waved his hand irritably, cradling his head in one hand like a man in despair, "You need my assistance. Of course you do. How many times have you come to me when your methods have failed, only to criticize me? To doubt me? Time and time again you come to me, I advise you, but you _never_ learn."

Lestrade's face reddened to an even deeper crimson, and he opened his mouth to object. And then something seemed to occur to him, a realization that made his face soften, and his shoulders slack. He spoke again, gently, "I know. . . That it has been a tough adjustment for you since Watson left. We all miss him at the Yard, seeing him chase after you, taking care of you. But Holmes, this is important. Children are going missing, you're the only man for it."

Holmes stood from the table, chair screeching roughly against the floor. "I think it's time the Yard had learned to stand on it's own." He said it softly, darkly, as though he could barely stand to hear himself say it. "I'm done."

He swept past Lestrade, moving toward the entrance of his room.

Lestrade watched him, desperation creeping into his demeanor, " _Children_ , Holmes."

Holmes stopped in the door way, but only turned his head slightly to mutter, "You know my methods, Inspector. Apply them."

And he disappeared into the seclusion of his room, not to be brought out again that day by any force within Lestrade's power. He glanced over at the breakfast table, where barely touched breakfast and the newspaper still lay. He'd leave it for him, the newspaper, just in case. He took his hat, headed down the thirteen steps, and stepped into the icy, cobbled street. He glanced back at that same old oak door, marked '221b', and under a foggy breath he said to himself, 

"Just in case."

* * *

Watson stood outside the entrance to his old home, fist hovering over the beaten wood and chipped paint as he debated with himself. Perhaps this wasn't as good of an idea as Mary had made it sound over dinner the previous night. Then again, anything sounds like a good idea after a few glasses of brandy. He shivered in the cold. Or perhaps it wasn't the cold, perhaps it was nervousness... no, not quite. Excitement, maybe, at the prospect of seeing an old friend. No, that wasn't it either. Anticipation. Watson cursed under his breath, and stepped away from the door. What was he expecting from this visit anyway? He knew Sherlock Holmes better than anyone, there was no way he would say yes. He was just about give in and head home when suddenly the door swung open, revealing the squat figure of Mrs. Hudson. She squinted up at him for a moment, eyes adjusting to the outside light. Then her eyes seemed to focus on him, and widened considerably, a large smile spread across her warm face as she cried, "Oh! Dr. Watson, It's you! Do come in, do come in!"

Watson's heart warmed exceptionally at the sight of this dear friend. Why hadn't he come to see her more often?

Well, he supposed he knew why.

Mrs. Hudson hobbled excitedly, making room for him in the entry way. She shoved aside a large suitcase that Watson had only just realized she had been carrying. "Can I help you with that?"

The old woman's eyes crinkled fondly at him, "You haven't changed John, still quite the gentleman. Alright dear, just move it over there. Thank you."

She pointed to a space by the coat rack, and stepped away from the bag. Watson did as he was told, lifting bag with an exaggerated huff, "Going somewhere Mrs. Hudson? Christmas eve is rather an odd time to travel."

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! Thanks so much for reading! It's only fair that I warn you now that I am not very good at finishing these things... But I have a good feeling about this one, and I'm really excited about it!  
> Also, I am not an expert on history, nor am I British, so you may find a few mistakes along the way. The good news is that I am great at receiving criticism, so if you see something wrong, just let me know!  
> (P.S you can find me on Tumblr under the same username if you want my help with a beta read)  
> Happy reading!  
> \- June


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